A Stronger Land
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: With a new threat looming, Sherlock is determined to find a solution before the new arrival, even with the events of the past few years starting to catch up with him. The problem is it isn't a case of solving the puzzles but rather guessing what someone else's solution would be. Basically, a take on how series 4 could go! (Spoilers for s3)
1. Mixed Blessings

A Stronger Land

Summary: With a new threat looming, Sherlock is determined to find a solution before the new arrival, even with the events of the past few years starting to catch up with him. The problem is it isn't a case of solving the puzzles but rather guessing what someone else solution would be.

Basically, a take on how series 4 could go!

* * *

Chapter 1: Mixed blessings

* * *

"Back? How can he be back?" John asked keeping an eye on the speck in the sky. The wind tossed Mary's scarf adding a splash of colour to the otherwise bleak and windy day. "Sherlock said Moriarty killed himself."

Mycroft, looking more human than John had even seen him, pressed his lips together. "James Moriarty has been dead for years, there has been no sign of him, no hint or mutterings. Nothing to imply…" the lips pressed even firmer together as if Moriarty's resurrection was a personal insult.

"And just this video is enough for your friends to change their mind?" John asked, glancing at Mary to check she was all right. He couldn't help the way his eyes shifted down to her belly.

Not long now 'till the bump became an actual person and Jesus if that thought didn't scare him more than the idea of Moriarty.

"Of course they have," Mary murmured absently. "Moriarty had his fingers in so many things that now they're terrified they've missed something."

Every so often he forgot that she probably knew more about this sort of thing than he did. Blinking a little he tilted his head, unsure whether to be amused by the unhappy look on Mycroft's face or worry for what might be coming.

Glancing at the car, John shifted closer. "It isn't you," he said to Mycroft, his voice low. "Is it?"

Mycroft looked even more annoyed. "It would be a neat solution," he said staring at the plane as it came closer. "And wonderfully ironic. But no."

John was pretty sure Mycroft was more annoyed that he hadn't seen that solution to Sherlock's situation than anything else. "And it isn't Sherlock?"

"No," Mary said folding her arms over their bump. "He wouldn't put you through another goodbye if he could avoid it."

No. Not unless there was John's own forgiveness at stake.

Frustrated beyond belief, John whirled around and started to pace.

"At least it's bringing Sherlock back," Mary pointed out.

"And now the man that set up crimes all over London just to avoid being bored is back. He kidnapped me once-"

Mary pulled a face as if to say that was hardly anything to get too upset over. Reluctantly tickled, John shot her an amused look and slowed. "Only bloody Sherlock Holmes could manage to get exiled and then a reprieve on the same day."

* * *

"It isn't him," was the first thing Sherlock called as he walked down the stairs. "Moriarty shot himself-"

Mycroft gave a patronizingly indulgent look as he lifted his mobile to his ear. "This coming from a man who tried to solve a 'murder' while the victim was dying on the changing room floor?"

"Who would it be?" John asked ignoring the snide comment.

Sherlock threw his hands up and started muttering under his breath.

"It's the way of those organisations," Mary said. "Cut the head off and five more grow in its place. I can't tell you the amount of times-"

John peered at her with some amazement and was dimly aware that both Mycroft and Sherlock had paused to do the same.

"What?" she asked looking slightly uncomfortable. "You said no more pretending-"

"Yes," John nodded. "Yes… just still," he made some vague gesture that was meant to indicate he was still in the process of absorbing the fact that his wife was a former…

Fuck it, he was still pissed off that she was possibly a better shot than he was.

"Moriarty was clever," Sherlock said, dragging his gaze away from Mary. "Too clever to allow anyone to creep up behind him."

"But he's dead," John argued.

"He was effective," Sherlock snapped. "The message was broadcast everywhere?"

"The news picked it up," Mycroft confirmed. "And have since repeated, explained and exaggerated the matter."

"It's been ten minutes," John muttered.

"It's the British media," Mycroft replied woodenly, pressing a button on his mobile. "And evidently my colleagues are just as moronically susceptible as the public."

"So you can't get through to anyone?" Mary asked.

"I am-"

"And you have no bright ideas?" Mary asked Sherlock.

"I have at least ten-"

Mary glanced at John. "Home?"

May as well. "Come on then," he said, nodding at Sherlock. "You can stay at ours-"

It might have been his imagination but John could have sworn he saw Sherlock wince slightly.

"Ah," Sherlock said glancing at Mycroft. "I assume you already-"

"Indeed," Mycroft said. "You can explain to the Watson's how you've moved them to Baker Street. I'm busy trying to explain to these idiots-" he broke off. "Ah, Miriam, I was hoping to get through to you-"

As one, John and Mary turned to Sherlock.

"As if the pair of you were going to last in the suburbs," Sherlock scoffed. "You'd have killed the neighbours within the year just for something to do."

* * *

"-don't just move people, Sherlock. Do you even know how ridiculous this is? Your brother is not your personal removal company-"

Sherlock just smirked at John as they walked through the door. "It is easier though-"

"How?!" John asked with disbelief. "How on earth-"

"I don't have to listen to you complain about the night bus when you come back from a case," Mary pointed out as she walked up the stairs.

"You are moving us back," John said pointing at Sherlock and throwing a despairing glance up at his wife.

"If you had discovered that I had left you Baker Street after saying goodbye to me you would have viewed the gesture as thoughtful-"

"Or possibly controlling," John argued.

"Bit late to complain about that," Sherlock said with an odd grin as he followed Mary up.

John stared up at them both and leaned against the wall.

_That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done._

_And you invaded Afghanistan._

Snorting, John scrubbed a hand through his hair and followed the pair up.

* * *

_All he could hear was the sound of water licking at the sides of the pool._

_Gun shot._

_His own voice screaming as he turned to see Sherlock bleeding out on the pavement, his own hands soaked in blood from where he'd tried to save Sherlock-_

He jolted from the dream as the confusion hit.

Light streamed through the curtains and lit up his old room. It was strange, being back with Mary. Like two worlds colliding.

He couldn't decide if it was brilliant or terrifying.

Reaching out, John grazed a hand along her side. Often, Mary turned from him in the night; always towards the door as if she fell asleep checking the entrance. The position allowed him to spoon up behind her, breath in her smell as his hands dipped down to their child.

Their daughter.

Bad timing, John thought as he stroked her stomach. In a month Mary would have given birth and their daughter would be out and vulnerable. As much as he had wished it otherwise during their time apart, there was a relief and safety in knowing that the baby was safe in Mary.

And that he couldn't manage to really screw her up yet.

The baby kicked him.

"Mm," Mary murmured, stirring. "She doesn't like you worrying," she said softly.

Amused now, John trailed his fingers over the skin, tickling gently. The baby responded to Mary's shivering laughter with a petulant flurry of kicks.

"If she cries when she comes out I'm blaming you," Mary said, turning more towards John.

"Funny that," John said, tracing a kiss across her jaw line. "And if-"

"JOHN!"

Groaning, John buried his face in Mary's shoulder. "We are moving home as soon as possible," he muttered before turning to roll out of bed.

"Or," Mary said, sitting up as best she could. "We could stay."

John shot her a disbelieving look as he pulled his trousers on. "Mary, you have never lived with Sherlock. You've never tried to have 'alone time' when living with Sherlock-"

"I don't doubt that," Mary agreed. "But…" she stared at him thoughtfully.

"John?" Sherlock's voice called again.

"Go," Mary urged.

John hesitated.

"We'll talk later," she said, smiling at him. "Now put your top on. There are enough rumours about you two."

He flipped her the finger on his way out and walked down the stairs to her laughter.

* * *

When John entered the living room, Sherlock was stood over the table, staring at an envelope.

It had been sometime since John had last seen Sherlock in a dressing gown, hair soaked from a shower and barefoot. Even after Sherlock had come out of hospital he man had been overly anal about not being seen as someone recovering from being shot whenever John had stayed.

And he'd lost weight again, John thought with a sigh.

"Is it a bill?" he asked trying to lighten the mood as he headed for the kettle. "You don't need to yell for help when-"

"It's the same type that Moriarty used," Sherlock said, still staring at the envelope.

John turned, the much needed cup of tea forgotten. Instead, he returned to Sherlock's side and stood by him, staring at the envelope.

"I…" John swallowed. "It really isn't you or Mycroft?"

To his credit, instead of getting annoyed or looking frustrated, Sherlock just shook his head. Slowly, Sherlock reached out and used the silver letter opener upon the heavy paper.

This time there was just paper inside.

Looking reluctant, Sherlock inspected the contents before drawing them out and tossing the envelope on the table.

Even at a glimpse, John knew exactly what was in Sherlock's hand.

"Patient notes?" John asked, baffled as he held out a hand for them.

Sherlock nodded, his forehead creased in confusion as he handed the forms to John.

The man in question was called Christopher Bates, a thirty year old lawyer who had been admitted four days ago to St Georges in Tooting with violent vomiting, dizziness and kidney failure.

The notes were from yesterday where the prognosis had been fatal.

"Poisoning," John murmured as he started to look through the test results.

"Dead," Sherlock muttered as he put his phone down. "He died three minutes before Moriarty's video went out."

Oh.

Not entirely sure how to deal with that, John sat down at the table. "A lawyer," he murmured. "Was he working on anything that-"

Sherlock shrugged, reaching out with one hand to grip at the chair in front of him.

Not entirely sure what he was doing, John watched curiously.

"I never thought…" Sherlock stared down at the chair and then seemed to shake himself. "Be ready to leave in ten minutes."

And with that he disappeared down the hall to his room and seconds later slammed the door behind him.

John stared after Sherlock, baffled.

_"…likely to be the last time I will ever see John Watson…"_

_"Never thought…"_

John frowned disliking the nagging feeling at the back of his head that he had missed something vital.

Again.

* * *

Mary came down before Sherlock came out.

"We need to stay," John said walking over to her quickly. "I know it's weird and I still can't believe he just-"

"I know," Mary said firmly. "But what's changed your mind? I thought-"

John turned to look at the direction of Sherlock's room. "I don't…I think…" he huffed frustrated with himself. "I feel like I'm missing something or he is…" John shook his head. "I can't describe it."

Mary reached out for him and gave him a kiss. "I'll take care of it."

John nodded and then frowned and looked around. "Where's our furniture?" he asked suddenly. "All of our stuff is here but-"

Mary winced. "Apparently Sherlock thought his furniture was better than ours."

Bloody maniac.

"The baby stuff?" John asked, scratching at his head. "It's been delivered-"

"I'll deal with it," Mary said again.

"There are only two rooms. Christ, just give me a week with him-"

"John," Mary snapped at him. "I have just told you, I'll deal with it."

Unsure, John stared at his wife.

"Mary," Sherlock said as he reappeared. "Whatever you do, do not get a takeaway. It seems someone is fascinated with poisoning people."

Mary nodded. "Well that makes things awkward as I'm pretty sure I'll be poisoned if I cook in here," she said.

There was a twitch of amusement in Sherlock's face. "Mycroft insisted on cleaning," he muttered, striding forward to his coat. "You could eat off the floor," he added. "He probably did."

The baby kicked under John's hand and he grinned. On a sudden whim he reached out for Sherlock, grabbing at his wrist to pull Sherlock's hand close.

For a moment Sherlock resisted, his hand tense and uncooperative. But after a moment Sherlock seemed to relent and allow John to place his hand on Mary's belly.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed as the baby kicked out again, his entire stance softening.

"She's doing it a lot now," Mary said, looking at John with a smile before covering Sherlock's hand with her own. "John's daughter apparently doesn't like the warm, safe life."

Sherlock's lips twitched in amusement. "She wouldn't," he murmured. "How long now?"

"Three weeks," Mary said, her hand leaving Sherlock's and smoothing over the bulk of the bump.

"Three weeks," Sherlock murmured. "We have a deadline then. John," he said, turning on his heel. "I need to get hold of that body."

"Try not to return with a body part," Mary asked, giving John another kiss.

"I make absolutely no promises," John muttered.

* * *

Next Chapter: The Murder at the Priory


	2. Murder at the Priory

Chapter Two: The Murder at the Priory

They were lucky, John thought, that the murder of Magnussen had remained officially unsolved. There were still the odd headlines splashed around bemoaning the incompetence of the police, the conspiracy theories. Thankfully there was also an investigation being launched about some of the man's activities.

Whether he was made into a demon or a saint the name would be around for a while.

What Sherlock thought of it as they walked past the newspapers displayed in the hospital café, John had no idea. They'd barely been able to talk since Sherlock had been taken into custody while Mycroft and his pals debated Sherlock's fate for a month.

John had seen the look on Sherlock's face as he had fired the gun. Years ago, when facing Moriarty at the pool, Sherlock had handled the gun like a complete novice, unaware and unsure.

He'd handled a gun since, John knew that. But the expression on Sherlock's face…

He'd killed before.

Strange, that despite the fact Sherlock had been back for over a year John had never really had the conversation with Sherlock about what he'd been up to in the years he'd been away. Sherlock had never talked about it, never hinted at it or even allowed for the opening in the conversation.

They made their way down to the morgue, Sherlock's stride never faltering as he walked ahead.

"What would you test for?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Why? Think they missed something?" John asked, speeding up to catch up.

"Clearly. But no, it will narrow it down if I know what they likely ruled out."

Right. "Uh…" John tried to picture the tests again. "Looks like a form of metal poisoning or arsenic-"

Sherlock sighed. "That hardly narrows it down."

"He suffered from cardiotoxicity**," **John said as they walked through another door. "When it's race against time they might have tried to go for the most typical metals."

Sherlock nodded. "Time limits often create mistakes."

Right. "Can I ask you something?"

Sherlock shot him an unimpressed look. "I believe you already have," he replied snottily.

"Why did you say it was the last time you'd ever see me?"

Sherlock said nothing as they walked. "I was being exiled," came the eventual reply.

"To a place without phones or the internet?" John asked.

"We were to lead separate lives once more," Sherlock murmured. "Ah, here," he said. "A dead body," he added with far too much enthusiasm, even for him.

Frustrated, John followed Sherlock to through the last set of doors and to the body on the slab.

"You must be Arty Tuner," Sherlock said nodding to the man in the lab coat waiting for them. "Have you started to do the tests-"

"It was antimony," the man…Arty replied.

That was unusual. "It's an alloy," John murmured. "Used on lead or tin…the poisoning must have been-"

"Murder. Of course it's murder, John," Sherlock huffed. "I hardly think I was given a notification of an unfortunate mishap."

"Why use it?" John asked rolling his eyes. "It's not that common in its pure form."

Sherlock grinned. "Now you're thinking," he said.

* * *

Christopher's wife had the markings of a beaten woman. John had seen enough cases while working at the surgery to notice the signs a few seconds behind Sherlock. Cautious, he tried to catch Sherlock's eye, a silent plea to go slowly with the woman and show some of the patience that Sherlock recently seemed to have miraculously acquired.

What he wasn't expecting was for Sherlock to stop dead and stare at her, his head tilting thoughtfully as she stood, hugging herself in the artificial light of the blocked off room.

"Your husband beat you," Sherlock murmured. "You're on your second marriage, wealthier than he…you are in love with a man…a doctor who has many dalliances but holds you in the highest regard."

She gasped as she moved to stand, her shock making her unsure. John glanced over at him in surprise.

It was probably the most John had heard from a deduction in a while.

The wife nodded, eyes wide and bright, her chin trembling.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he stepped back, his eyes still travelling over the wife. It was almost as if he were displeased that he'd got it right and for a moment John thought it was simple dislike over what he had managed to see until-

"Wrong," Sherlock breathed and let out a strange noise. "Florence," he said slowly, using the name as if it were a code.

It was all he said and yet…the woman stared at him with some relief and nodded.

What the hell was going on? Sherlock rarely managed to guess at a name and usually if he did it was obvious afterwards to spot what he had observed.

Sherlock stepped close to the woman…Florence?... and studied her.

"I understand," was all Sherlock said before turning around and striding out.

Well…at least someone did.

Especially when it turned out her name was Naomi and she was refusing to say a word.

* * *

It had been some time since Sherlock had become so caught up in a case that he left John behind. The experience was just as annoying as John remembered.

Only now it was made slightly better by the fact that Mary was around to meet up with now.

* * *

They sat on a bench together in Regents Park, Mary sipping at hot chocolate while John had a tea.

"When I decided to…to become Mary-"

"You don't have to," John said, looking at her. "I told you before-"

"John," she murmured. "Just let me…I had money. Rather a lot of it."

John took a sip of tea to give him a moment to think. "I imagine your job paid well."

"It could do," Mary said frankly. "And the money…I have it in pockets here and there but…I can get to some, most of it without drawing attention."

Okay. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked. "I married you without being bribed."

"I could buy 219."

Uncomprehending, John shrugged. "What's that?"

Mary waited and took a sip of tea. "We could even knock through into 221 if you wanted."

Oh.

John felt his jaw drop.

"Live next door to…" he sat back, not wholly sure what to do with the information.

"You'd get to see him, get your adrenaline fix. We'd still see you, Sherlock would see the baby-"

John leaned over, putting his tea down to stare seriously at his wife. "Mary…is this…are you doing this because you feel guilty?"

Something flashed across her face. "That would be useless," she muttered bitterly, sitting back and away from him. "I shot him, it's done."

Right. There was an entire mind-field of psychology right there. Looking away at the park and at a couple walking their bear of a dog, John narrowed his gaze ahead and tried to collect his thoughts.

"I thought you'd have jumped at it," Mary said after a moment as the wind whipped between them.

"I don't know," John said slowly. "I think…" he looked down and took her free hand. "We should stay for now and go from there. It's safer and if this is someone with ties to Moriarty then…" he looked at their bump. "I'd rather have all of you where I can keep an eye on you."

Mary smiled slightly. "Same," she said, squeezing his hand. "And he needs you. He works better with you at his side."

John shrugged at that, never entirely sure how that worked. "Have you…" he sat back again, picking up his tea. Turning it in one hand he stared at the logo. "Have you ever had PTSD?"

"Of course I have," Mary murmured. "It seemed to the requirement for this marriage."

"There's something off with Sherlock," John said, still turning the tea in his hand. "I don't know…I have no idea what he did while he was away other than dismantle Moriarty's organisation. And he seemed so sure that he'd done it. But…something's survived. Do you think-"

Mary sighed. "I never knew him before," she said softly. "That said…he should have picked up on me, that I was hiding something. I…" she looked down and swallowed. "I was preparing for it."

Not sure what to say to that, John let go of her hand and wrapped that arm around her instead. "We might have to stay with him," John muttered eventually. "Between the three of us we should add up to one fully functioning human being for this kid."

Mary laughed and lay her head on his shoulder. "On the other hand we are going to be complete over kill when she starts dating."

John pulled a face. "Thanks for that."

* * *

"The Murder at the Priory," Sherlock announced as they returned to 221b.

Mary narrowed her eyes in confusion as John guided her to the chair. "Sounds like one of John's blog titles," she said. "John I can get to a chair on my own."

"It's one of the first unsolved murders in London, officially," Sherlock said. "A scandal at the time."

"One case at a time," John muttered having ignored Mary and backing off only once he was sure she was comfortable. "What about the murdered lawyer?"

Sherlock shot him a look of pure disappointment. "The Murder at the Priory," he said, turning around with a dramatic sweep of his coat, "Was so scandalous because of the amount of suspects. Charles Bravo was a lawyer who people suspected of trying to kill his wife with antimony. His wife was having an affair but had brought a lot of money to the marriage. Any of this ringing a bell?" he asked, as if John were four years old and thick as shit.

"So there are similarities," John said, perching on the edge of the arm of his chair that he had selflessly given to Mary.

The look he received from Sherlock was withering. "Charles Bravo's wife was called Florence. Christopher Bates' wife nodded at the name."

"Maybe she knew the similarity?" John said slowly.

"When was it?" Mary asked, looking between them. "The original murder?"

"Eighteen seventy six," Sherlock said with some triumph. "It is also almost completely forgotten about now. Highly unlikely that she would know that detail unless…" he said, trailing off as if hoping either John or Mary would pick up his point.

"She…looked up people who had died in the same way as her husband?" John asked slowly.

Sherlock almost deflated in disappointment. "How many years will it take for you to think?" he asked, pacing. "You try," he ordered Mary.

"I would but my bladder is being beaten by my baby," Mary said, struggling to get out of the chair. "For God's sake John, I can stand on my own," she snapped when he came close to help.

Taking the hint, he backed off and waited.

And waited.

"Need a hand?" he asked hesitantly when she still failed to get up.

The look she sent him was equal annoyance, amusement and relief. "Can it not come early?" she asked pleadingly.

"I was early," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

John tried not to grin at Mary as he helped her up.

"Go on then," he said as she waddled off to the loo. "Why did Christopher's wife know the name?"

"It's a reconstruction," Sherlock said, sitting down suddenly. "The wife, her marks were all new and she was far too skittish; not used to hiding it. His hands were soft, small…they didn't match her marks. Someone had gone to rather a lot of trouble to make it look like she was a victim of domestic abuse."

"A reconstruction?" John asked, sitting down opposite him. "Okay so…they want you to solve the original murder?"

Sherlock shook his head. "That would be…manageable," he said. "No…they have solved it, or believed they have. I need to work out what their solution was. These people are like puppets in a play. I have to work out the plot, not the solution."

John sat back and looked over at the television and at the Cluedo game underneath.

_It's not the victim._

_Of course it is, it's the only solution that makes sense._

"They might not be as clever as you," John said slowly.

"Might not be?" Sherlock asked, staring at the table. "Let's face it, John. They won't be." He tipped his head back to the ceiling. "I don't even know who has set this up. I need to know who they are, how they think."

"Do you?" John asked. "We know what's happening. Can't you just tell someone that these people are-"

"Are being what?" Sherlock asked. "Whatever our mysterious 'Moriarty' is doing they clearly have leverage over these people. The last time we played this game it was my reputation at stake, before that it was the lives of those that had been kidnapped. We have no idea what might be at risk now and we have currently far too many…" Sherlock seemed to falter and muttered something that sounded remarkably like 'pressure points'.

"Okay," John said, finding himself wanting to divert Sherlock's attention from where it had wandered to. "Okay then,what about the people? The 'puppets'? Couldn't you start to work out things about your opponent from them?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze and stared at John. "They'll all be scared, worried, uncomprehending. He or she will have something over them…" He trailed off, looking as if he'd suddenly caught the scent. "The things they target the most could start to give me data…would they know…" he started muttering to himself again.

The muttering. When had that started? Time was, Sherlock would have declared his every thought to the room whether they wanted to hear or not. If he'd been hunting down criminals while he'd been away then perhaps he'd had to start muttering…

Unhappy with the idea, John frowned and leaned back. "Mary and I want to stay here," he said suddenly.

The announcement seemed to send Sherlock's thoughts stumbling. "What? Why?" he asked baffled.

"Safer. For all of us. God knows what kinds of trouble you could get into without two damn good shots in the flat."

Sherlock stared at him. "She's better than you," he said abruptly.

John scowled. "You don't know that for certain."

"Yes I do," Sherlock said with a clear nod. "You've never shot at a fifty pence piece before and hit it."

"Never in front of you," John replied with a smile.

It was enough to make Sherlock look thoughtful. "221b is also to be a target," Sherlock said, standing to stare out of the window. "In truth, you would do better to get on the plane I abandoned last night."

"I'm not leaving you to face this alone," John said firmly.

"You have a wife, a child on the way," Sherlock said, keeping his back to John. "You are being irresponsible just by thinking of-"

It took a ridiculous amount of will power not to get riled up by Sherlock. Drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, John stared at the sheer curtains over the long yawning windows. "I am looking after my family," he said tightly.

Sherlock's head turned slightly as if startled. John stared, waiting for some snippy comeback or declaration about the futility of sentiment but it never came.

"The…that is appreciated, John, but-"

"Shut up," John said without heat. "Besides, it seems as if you need an idiot around to work out the solutions to these puzzles."

Slowly, Sherlock turned to face him, his expression softer than usual but still inscrutable.

Then he sharpened.

"Anderson," Sherlock said suddenly, moving like a bullet from a gun and reaching for his coat.

"I-"

"I'll be back with an idiot," Sherlock announced. "Don't go anywhere."

Then he was out the door only to stick his head back around a few seconds later. "We may need biscuits," Sherlock added. "I imagine any attempt at a thought process from that man will require some fuel."

John waved him off with a sigh.

Back to business as usual then.

* * *

Next Chapter: All you need is an idiot.


End file.
